


A deserted Spanish road, near dawn

by TramGirl



Series: March (Mini-Fic) Madness [3]
Category: Biggles Series - W. E. Johns
Genre: Gen, Injury Recovery, Missing Scene, Quiet, Spain, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 03:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10069787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TramGirl/pseuds/TramGirl
Summary: A missing scene from Biggles in Spain. After rescuing his older-brother figures from certain death, Ginger faints. Algy worries and Biggles is stoic. Part 3 of March (Minific) Madness, prompted by a request from my younger brother.





	

Biggles briefly glances back but doesn’t stop driving. “Is it bad?” he asks.

“Checking.” In the darkness, I make a quick, clumsy examination of Ginger’s dead weight. He mentioned his arm before and I find the improvised bandage, stiff and brown with dried blood. He might need stitches, but I’m not about to try to find out before I at least have some clean cloths on hand. Fortunately that’s the only wound I find. “Might need stitches but I can’t tell without some light," I inform Biggles.

“We’ll stop at the next village and buy some things,” Biggles decides.

“It’s the middle of the night,” I point out reasonably. “We don’t have any money. And you don’t speak much Spanish.”

No witty answer from the driver’s seat. It might be my imagination, but I think his hands grip the steering wheel of our stolen car a little more tightly. An idea strikes me and I rummage through Ginger’s pockets quickly. He does have a battered packet of Spanish cigarettes and a book of matches. After our shipwreck, all property is common, and anyway, kids shouldn’t smoke. I light a cigarette, take a drag and pass it forward to Biggles.

A terse: “Thanks.”

I light one for myself and try to figure out in the darkness exactly how much Spanish money Ginger had in his pockets. After a little while, I give up and pass the notes forward, uncounted. “This should help buy groceries,” I say.

We stop in the next village. It’s dark, and I’m under orders to take the wheel and drive hellbent for leather if anything goes wrong. To make that happen, I have to move from the backseat to the front, so I have to get out from under Ginger’s limp body and put him on his side in the backseat. I know it’s the dark and my own worry that makes his freckles stand out so sharply on his pale face. He’s not dead. He’s just unconscious. Still, my fingers creep up to check the pulse in his neck. Slow but steady. I’m turning into an old lady in my old age.

I take the driver’s seat and quickly familiarize myself with the controls. Cars are much simpler than aircraft but in both cases, it pays to make sure you know where things are when you have an unfamiliar one.

I’m starting to think something has really gone wrong by the time Biggles finally shows up again, carrying some bundles.

“I definitely paid the ‘stupid tourist in a warzone tax,’” Biggles admits, climbing in to the back seat. “Drive until you see somewhere with a bit of cover where we can stop. I think sunrise is in an hour or so.”

When I find a suitable spot, I park the car and turn back to my passengers. “Is he still out?”

Biggles nods. “I think he was really all in before he even started the rescue effort. But I couldn’t have done better myself.” He rummages through the groceries and produces a candle, some cloths and a bottle of wine. “First things first.”

The bandage comes off and by candlelight, I’m relieved to see that it’s not as deep as I feared. If things were normal, if we were home, I’d drag him to the doctor for stitches. But here and now, I think it’s enough to wash the wound out with some of the wine and put a clean dressing on it. 

That done, I take a swig of wine straight from the bottle- and immediately have to eat some bread and cheese. The prison ship hadn’t been keen on wasting food on condemned men.

Biggles plucks the bottle from my hand and copies me. “Do you know, I think I’d rather have malaria than a repeat of a vacation like this.”

“At least you could have malaria in the comfort of your own home,” I laugh, perhaps a little harder than I should have at that, Biggles looks slightly concerned. “I’m fine,” I say quickly.

“That’s what he said. I suppose he’s learned it from both of us.”

A groan from Ginger interrupts the conversation.

In the absence of some water, Biggles tips a little wine into Ginger’s mouth- and with a sputtering cough, our protege is back with us.

Everything is going to be fine. We’ll get home eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t have the book in front of me and I can’t find an e-text so I’m going by memory here. Please forgive any resulting errors! They also all sound very OOC to me, despite everything I’ve tried to fix it. I think it’s that this is a downtime moment and we usually get our heroes when they’re actively doing stuff.


End file.
